


anastomosis

by tablecloth



Category: Original Work, my g (Video Game)
Genre: (duncan didn't die in high school), College AU, M/M, Marijuana, POV Second Person, Recreational Drug Use, hooking up etc, lowercase (to emulate the style of My G!), mild violence, rivals to friends to lovers KINDA
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2020-03-09 21:12:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18925117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tablecloth/pseuds/tablecloth
Summary: a connection or opening between two things that are normally diverging or branching, such as between blood vessels, leaf veins, or streams. Such a connection may be normal or abnormal; it may be acquired or innate; and it may be natural or artificial.





	1. BEGIN

**Author's Note:**

> wrote this in 2018 but had it sitting in a drive folder. uploading now bcos hey!
> 
> a college au based on the unfinished text based game [my g: a story of love, loss, and life](https://coolhostsite.neocities.org/MY_G.html), which i worked on around 2015 with my good friend. this work is a gift for that friend (LUV U SARA :3)
> 
> additionally: my ENDLESS thanx to everyone who helped with putting this story together. i wuv u all dearly & if u think u assisted me even a little, this msg is addressed to you
> 
> enjoy!!!!!!!!!

**LUCAS, early august**

your name is lucas gallagher. you are twenty years old and currently enrolled at a pennsylvania state school. not your top choice, but if you were going to afford this without fully depending on your parents, you were going to have to settle.

for your junior year, you've managed to get a teaching assistant's position in an "introduction to anthropology" course. skimming through the class roster, you had been hopeful (embarrassingly enough) that a certain name would be listed (she probably almost definitely took intro already anyway, so that effort had been naive and a little pitiful) -- however, you found a different name sticking out in its stead (though not for any particularly fond reason).

you did not realize that duncan barlow even went to this school, but it makes sense given his circumstances. you were aware that he had taken a gap year in order to work, but any information beyond that was out of your realm.

duncan barlow used to be the bane of your existence (or at least really annoying), but that disdain has diminished over time. this is a good thing, too, because (as long as he doesn't drop, which really is a crapshoot) you two are going to be in close quarters for the upcoming semester.

* * *

**DUNCAN, early august**

your name is duncan barlow. you're twenty and have just made the upgrade from community college to state school. you took a gap year to work full-time at the local gas station and part-time with an independent house-painting company; you then spent the following year at aforementioned community college working up to this coming semester, wherein you'll be a sophomore at a school worth telling extended family about. you're really hoping this school year doesn't suck, because even with the financial aid program this shit really isn't cheap enough.

* * *

**LUCAS, mid august, ANTHRO1100**

when you hand out the course syllabi and greet him politely by name, duncan barlow does not immediately remember you. the stack of papers in your fingers crinkles minutely as you involuntarily tense your grip. this should not be as infuriating to you as it is. you laugh self-consciously and continue passing the packets out.

as you're walking back to your seat, however, he apparently does remember. "wait, lucas!" you turn to look at him, deliberately impassive, and pray he's not about to make a scene. god knows he's good at that. you walk back toward him, hoping it'll serve as some cue for him to speak at an appropriate volume. he wags a finger at you, recognition painting his face. "you're totally the guy who used that super trippy song in a project. fuck, oh, what was it?" he looks up at nothing as he ruminates. you tell yourself you're letting him do this because you're more mature than you were in high school. class also hasn't begun yet, so you don't really have good footing to tell him to shut up. "yeah, no, it was--" he pauses, makes sure he's certain, then nods to himself, "yeah -- it was bio, right?" he laughs, head leaned back. "that shit was in _sane_ , oh my god."

you are fully aware of how hilarious duncan barlow thought your inclusion of neutral milk hotel's "holland, 1945" in your mitosis presentation was. you are also pretty sure duncan was high that day, but you're not certain if that makes his reaction better or worse. the tips of your ears feel warm. "yup, that was me." it's a strain not to roll your eyes at him. you want this conversation over with.

"awesome that we've got some benton alumn here." his smile is crooked in a strangely charming, ryan gosling way. the way attractive guys smile when they're hitting on a girl they know they can get. "maybe you could show me around? one benton dude helping out another?" he implores, kicking your shin playfully. you look down at where he kicked and linger on it. there's a question nagging you but you refuse to put words to it.

===

_late august_

since you (re)introduced yourselves on the first day of class, duncan has been alarmingly... amiable. he waves to you when you pass one another on campus and calls your name when he's too far away to reach you. it can get grating and a little embarrassing at times, but you've also never really been acknowledged like this. you don't exactly want to admit it, but the attention isn't unwelcome.

* * *

**DUNCAN, september, ANTHRO1100**

"mister TA," you address lucas as you approach him after class. you place a hand flat on his desk, face and tone simulating seriousness. "i have a bit of a situation."

lucas sighs as he slides a laptop into his bag. "what is it. and stop calling me that," he reprimands, just like you expect him to. a grin cracks against your lips before you can stop it.

"well, the thing is," you begin your pitch, following him as he slings his tiny scandinavian backpack over his shoulder and heads toward the exit, "my prospects in this class are not looking great."

he sighs again, exasperated, and looks at you from the side. "what is that supposed to mean?" a laugh bubbles out of your chest, abrupt and unexpected. he raises a brow, so you collect yourself and continue.

"well, like. we've only had three quizzes so far, right. but i've --"

"four," lucas corrects. "there's one every week." you'll take his word for it.

"okay, four quizzes. well i've only passed one, and that was the first quiz we took. i mean," --

***

_[clinking of cutlery being placed on wood] how have classes been going, dunc? [hum of a microwave turning] any better than last semester?_

"oh, uh, yeah. they've been great."

_really? [relieved exhale] that's wonderful, hon. [padding of socked footsteps on linoleum] y'know, i told you this school would be better for you._

"i know, ma."

_you don't wanna hear it from me, i get it, but [sharp inhale] i am just so proud of you, honey._

"i'm proud of you too, mom."

_[choked laugh] c'mon, duncan, you're gonna get me weepy before supper._

***

\-- you itch your jaw sheepishly, gesture vaguely with your other hand. "i just figure i could be doing better, right? so, as my TA, could you maybe lend a bro a hand?" you nudge his arm, lighthearted.

lucas pushes open one of the doors out of the social sciences building. you follow. "i'm not helping you cheat."

"wh -- no! ' _cheat_ '?" you half-feign offense, "that's not what i'm asking for, dude! i just mean, like. tutoring, or something. helping me study?"

he eyes you, skeptical. after a moment, he relents. "ok. sure. do you want my email or something?"

* * *

**LUCAS, october**

you're not sure how he roped you into it, but you somehow exchanged cell phone numbers with duncan barlow. it was under the pretense of helping him study, but you think he might have just wanted the opportunity to send you dumb pictures like he is currently.

it's not like you haven't helped him study, though. you suppose he wasn't lying about that. you (reluctantly) conceded to making flashcards with him, and the time spent wasn't totally wasted (he passed with a C+ after the first study session, then an actual A- following the next). you note that he's different than he was in high school. not to suggest that he's not an asshole idiot, but he's matured a little. you can see it in the way he's a bit less rambunctious, less loud. and color you surprised when his first anthro presentation wasn't made an hour before its deadline.

after a successive spam of memes you admittedly don't understand the appeal of, you get a notification from someone other than duncan:

  


* * *

**DUNCAN, october, campus apartment J9-1**

you're chilling out on some stranger's couch because it's a friday and this is what you do. music bumps and pounds beneath the voices of people trying to speak over it and you sigh through your nose. following friday night protocol, you do a casual scope over the room, keeping an eye out for anybody of interest. you're just starting to get buzzed, your half-full solo cup of whatever as evidence.

alcohol always mellows you out somehow, slows you down. mindlessly, you finish off the rest of what's in your cup in a single swallow. it leaves burning tracks down your esophagus, singeing uncomfortably into your chest, and you remember why you'd been going slow on it in the first place. maybe you're further gone than you realized. it's not a bad thing.

somebody says something about getting a smoke circle going in the other room, to which you inwardly remark that it's about time. you lift yourself off the couch and follow the small crowd into a side room. it's much colder than the living room area, an air conditioner lodged in the window frame. a buzzing drone bounces off the gaps where the A/C unit doesn't quite fit in the wall, and the noise gives the room a sense of its own pulse. as the circle starts forming itself, you test your luck and drop down beside the skinny brunet in a turtleneck/denim jacket combo.

* * *

**LUCAS, october, campus apartment J9-1**

it's kind of funny, because when you decided you would go to this party (something you do not do), you were really going out on a limb. but you figured, hey, worst case scenario, claire will be there. you don't get to see her that much anymore, so any time spent together is well worth it. you should have predicted that upon arrival to this god forsaken house party, you would have inevitably missed a pivotal text from claire informing you that she is not going to arrive on time.

if you weren't an idiot, you would have seen her message, you would have planned accordingly, and you would have tastefully stalled until further notice. instead, you're standing against the wall of a stranger's apartment, alone, tapping your shoe and fiddling with your phone.

after you accidentally initiate eye contact, a girl with auburn bangs tugged unevenly by hairclips ambles over to you. you recognize her from anthropology, her name might be samantha. she asks how you're doing and your fumble for an answer leads you to respond instead with the same question. before you can catch your slip, she laughs. her laugh goes on longer than is justifiable, a slightly grating sound resonating from her nose. when her laughter dies down, she lets out a happy sigh and turns away without notice, leaving you. you think you might throw up, you're that mortified. you measure the distance from where you're standing to the exit, try to determine how easily you could slip out and in how little time, but the girl just as quickly returns. with an amicable smile, she pushes a blue solo cup of something into your palms, giving a quick double pat to the back of your hand once your grip on the cup is stable. "you could probably use this," she grins, tongue poking out just below the line of her teeth, and you don't think she's making fun of you.

"oh. uh, thanks," you say. she nods, gives a little salute, and then walks away for real.

you snag a glimpse of an empty loveseat and decide to beeline it, covering the top of your cup with one hand as you twist and duck around and under other party-goers. once you've reached your destination, legs crossed and with cheap polyester pressing plush into your back, you take a cursory sip of your drink. your wrist instinctually jerks the cup away from your mouth at first swallow and a cough scorches its way out of your throat. you glance around to ensure no one witnessed your little goof, straighten your posture, then bring it back to your lips. you brace yourself this time, prepared for the feeling of actual magma sliding down your throat and into your guts.

* * *

**DUNCAN, october, campus apartment J9-1**

you're making your return trip to the living room feeling pleasantly out of your mind, the party's atmosphere molded into something new entirely. turtleneck is hovering beside you, you can feel him in your periphery. (each time he'd passed the bong to you, your fingers grazed one another's. the first time was an incidental fumble to grab the stem, your fingers bumping out of chance. the second time was dubious, the edge of his pinky brushing the length of your forefinger from the knuckle. the third time you think was deliberate, his eyes meeting yours with a coy grin. he let his hand linger as you pulled yours away, inadvertently dragging the side of your palm over the flat of one of his nails. his smile had grown wickeder and you realized, thoughts becoming translucent and abstracted with the high, that he was going to be the one for tonight. he also gave you a brownie in shrink-wrap, which you pocketed and shortly thereafter forgot about; the sentiment was nice, but you're interested in something faster-acting than an edible high right now.) turtleneck taps your shoulder, excuses himself politely in your ear, then disappears somewhere. you're too present, too in-the-moment to even care whether or not turtleneck is around.

the concentration right now is on walking, and the humid heat radiating off of strangers' bodies as you pass. it makes you feel almost sticky. the couch you'd been on earlier comes up into your field of view faster than you expect, but that doesn't compare to the whiplash you experience spotting none other than lucas gallagher sitting where you had been. for a few grueling seconds you're genuinely afraid the bud was laced.

you have his name on your mouth and are dropping beside him before you even realize what you're doing. you really cannot believe lucas is here. you tell him that. your face hurts and you put together that it's because of how wide you're smiling. the dull pain is immediate enough for you to think you might be damaging something, like you're going to tear right through the muscles in your cheeks. the lighting in this corner of the room is dim, but you're able to recognize belatedly that he looks unhappy. or uncomfortable, possibly. you can't place it.

while you've been carefully scrutinizing lucas's face, trailing the arch of his eyebrows, the attractive cut of his jaw, the prominent triangularity of his irish nose, you slowly come to register that he's been talking. it somehow blended with all the other sounds you're hearing, everything was just one layer of noise. but now that you're focused, you can distinguish the timbre of his voice from everyone else. "wait, wait -- what?" you interrupt. "could you just like," you lazily circle your pointer finger in the air toward yourself, "rewind a few minutes maybe? sorry, i'm super high right now." you laugh, because it's always been what you're best at.

"no shit," lucas replies, curt. he rolls his eyes before pointedly looking ahead and not at you. the curve of his mouth is a little more pronounced into a frown than usual, his words are over-enunciated, the edges of his upper eyelids swoop where they normally make a gentle arc. it suddenly hits you and you are dumbstruck.

"holy shit. lucas, you're drunk right now?"

you must have leaned in for a better look, because he halfheartedly shoves you and tells you to "just piss _off_ , duncan."

you laugh and it sounds weak. "c'mon dude, lighten up," you nudge him with your shoulder. he glowers but it's like he's not even seeing you. he doesn't want to see you. the finality in his tone hurts.

you comply with his demands after a moment, redistributing your weight to the armrest so you can propel yourself upright. standing, your head reels.

* * *

**LUCAS, october, campus apartment J9-1**

first of all, you aren't drunk. you're polishing off your second drink by the time duncan leaves, each agonizing gulp a step toward misguided defiance. being drunk would imply a lack of control, and you are in control right now. you're the seasoned helmsman, and whether to steer this ship directly into the iceberg is ultimately your decision to make. second of all, fuck duncan barlow. third of all, fuck duncan barlow double for being here, at this party you were invited to and then deserted at. that on its own isn't exactly a wrongdoing on duncan's part, but it still really really sucks. great for him, he has a thriving social world to explore while you sit here alone like a douchebag.

* * *

**DUNCAN, october, campus apartment J9-1**

turtleneck guy is really pretty alright. after treating yourself to another drink (you mixed it yourself, near entirely svedka this time because you're here for a good time, not a long one), you caught him by the yamaha stereo speakers and formally introduced yourselves. his name is brandon, or brendan or something. you can barely hear anything. the heavy, consistent torrent of stimuli from the music (the pulsating vibrations, the deafening bursts) makes you think your internal organs are actually going to rupture, going to hum and thrum of their own accord louder and louder, harder and harder until the shell of your body can no longer contain the pressure and you explode, grotesque and untimely against this stranger's walls and upholstery.

turtleneck must be pretty perceptive because he snaps you out of your reverie, asks whether you want to go someplace quieter (he's asking something else, his posture mirroring yours, his gaze tracking the route of your adam's apple each time you swallow down more of the garbage in your cup). you tell him to lead the way.

passing by lucas, you think he might see you but you don't look. the notion of him seeing you right now makes your jaw tense, makes your hand twitch imperceptibly. you're not entirely sure why you don't look; there's no real reason not to, but the course of your thoughts derails before anything sticks. you get a good glimpse of turtleneck's silhouette, and it really is enticing. narrow shoulders taper into an even narrower waist, below which an average ass is hugged appealingly by khakis. there's a familiarity to it that you can't quite put a name to, but it makes your head swim, your chest tight. your fingers ache to touch something that isn't here.

there's a room beside the one everyone had smoked in, its door ajar and lights off. the two of you enter and you find distantly that the space seems lived in, might be the apartment owner's bedroom. turtleneck's face is complete shadow from where you're standing and it feels unreal, dream-like. this might actually be a dream. do dreams always feel this way? the shadowy figure is closer now, you can feel its half-grin against the side of your mouth. you like that it's taller than you, you like the way its ribcage feels beneath your hands, and you give a pleased hum.

"y're cute, duncan," turtleneck's voice says, and you open your eyes when he kisses you. you still can't see him.

* * *

**LUCAS, october, campus apartment J9-1**

 

 

  


it takes you about four tries to read the messages over because it's like words aren't making fucking sense right now. then you figure out what claire's saying and feel curiously unaffected; under normal circumstances maybe you would feel bad, but at this point does it matter at all? it's not like it's the first time claire pate or anybody else has flaked on you. and who better to flake on than you, lucas gallagher, whose companionship means absolutely nothing?

you stand up and slip your phone in your back pocket. your head whirls, vision fuzzy at the edges for a second, but it passes. 'put urself out there.' that's probably the funniest goddamn thing you've heard all night. really a riot. the only place you're putting yourself is somewhere you can be alone, then you'll stay put until you think you're good to walk back to your dorm.

leaning against walls and furniture for maximum walking support, you journey your way to a back hallway. there are three doors. you push open the one that's ajar, because that makes sense.

the space becomes jarringly bright when you flip the switch, and even more jarring when you realize there's a couple on the bed. you stumble out an apology and turn back out of the room, but not before you unabashedly double-take at the sudden recognition of duncan barlow ( _with a guy?_ your brain amends). an inhuman noise of surprise lurches its way out your throat and your number one priority becomes just getting out of here.

* * *

**DUNCAN, october, campus apartment J9-1**

everything is blurred. with the lights on, it feels like another world. hyperreal, almost, as though you're in a dollhouse or a movie set or something. your eyes are locked on the doorway, where you can see just beyond to the low-cut beige carpet of the hall. your guts are going solid, sinking hard against your other organs. a delayed rush of fear gushes over you, through you, as the magnitude of what just happened begins to dawn. you feel something, turtleneck nosing your cheek to spur you back into kissing, but your mind is racing. from where it had been firmly planted on turtleneck's ass, you mildly slip your hand flat to the bed. "uh," you begin, but forget to continue from there.

after some indeterminate amount of time spent struggling for air under the possible outcomes and implications of lucas having seen you like this, turtleneck tentatively disentangles himself from you and stands.

* * *

**LUCAS, october, campus apartment J9-1**

you find a spot on the cement landing of the apartment's staircase and dump yourself on your ass. you splay your legs out over the stairs, closing your eyes and leaning back on your elbows. the air is wet and cold, but refreshing when you're burning up the way you are.

time passes, you're not sure how much, before the door behind you creaks with the effort of being opened. the music inside is still playing because life goes on without you.

"yo," a masculine voice above you greets. "you hangin'n there?" you hear shuffling and then there's a presence beside you. you open your eyes and slackly turn your head toward it. the only significant light source is a single unprotected bulb, glowing gaunt yellow from its mounted station above the door. it nicely illuminates the stoop of the boy's cheekbones and the glaze of his dilated eyes. from what you can discern, he's wearing a timberland denim jacket paired with a dark turtleneck, then dockers and adidas. it's not bad. you notice that he's noticed you noticing him; he smiles roguishly at that and you half-smile in return.

"i'm fine," you assert slowly and precisely, ever conscious of what others think of you. you don't want your words betraying your current state of inebriety. when you sit up, the world goes off balance for a moment, the same feeling as when you first step off a rollercoaster. then everything settles back into place more or less and you slouch, loosely folding your arms on top of your knees. in an unwonted turn of events, you actually feel a little inclined to talk. when you speak, your words melt together a little at the ends, but you don't seem to notice. "uh. i don't normally, like. do this... y'know," you smile wryly, shrug toward the door, "kinda stuff."

a clammy hand pressed to the middle of your back makes you start for a second, but it's just the guy. "i could tell," he laughs genially, then absentmindedly caresses his thumb against the lower notches of your spine. the moment is very... secluded. personal in the way he's laxly huddled with you. he asks your name and you tell him. he says it suits you, that your name reflects your down-to-earth energies, asks if you're a pisces. you aren't really sure what he's talking about but you like the attention. there's something in a far away part of your brain that's nagging you about his appearance, more nuanced than just the idea that he's attractive. you're trying to connect wires. you've seen him before.

he says his name is brandon and that he's glad to have been able to meet you, lucas. his mouth works itself around your name in a captivating way that makes you blush, makes your head feel even murkier. leaning farther into each other, magnetic, the atmosphere is certainly indicating something. his eyes play a game, flitting from facial feature to facial feature until dropping anchor on your lips. damnably unhurried, his gaze then drags up to meet your own. a question.

by some fluke, you're uncharacteristically receptive. pliant. a test run, brandon presses a cursory kiss against your lips. you reciprocate in kind.

* * *

**DUNCAN, october, campus apartment J9-1**

there's a half-constructed lie you have in mind as you re-immerse yourself into the party. you're not really in the mood to socialize, kind of just want to get booze and leave. ribbons of golden light shine down from the heavens to reveal a vagabond shot glass, stranded on a side table. you down it, don't even taste the sting, then head toward the exit.

immediately beyond the front door is a couple making out, whom you fully intend to allow privacy. then your eyes just barely adjust to the dun tones of night and the wind is knocked out of you. the two are unmistakably lucas and turtleneck, and your thoughts jumble discordantly, incomprehensibly. "what the fuck?" you hear yourself, the words leaving your mouth long and accusatory. both boys look up at you, startled.

"hey duncan," turtleneck greets, friendly enough, and it is somehow in this moment unbearable. the way this feeling of ill-defined rage and scorn rolls through you, it's like a flip switching somewhere. your fingers feel almost numb with it and your vision smudges.  

"so you just fuck anybody, huh?" you can't even tell who the words are directed at, can't tell where they're coming from. your rationale is too disjointed, now. ideas don't connect with words don't connect with actions and your body is operating void of your authority.

* * *

**LUCAS, october, campus apartment J9-1**

your brain isn't quite caught up with the situation but anxiety spikes your pulse regardless. brandon pushes himself up to meet duncan's height, and the two of them exchange bitter words that, in spite of their volume, you can't follow. you get dizzy looking up at them and a current of blanched unease rushes through you. a blunt pain in your gut is followed by the uncomfortable sensation of saliva filling your mouth and you are suddenly sure that you are going to puke. you mumble an excuse before scrambling your way down the short flight of stairs to the grass below.

bracing your hands on your thighs, you heave into the bushes. behind you are the indistinct sounds of verbal and physical confrontation; amorphous words overlap the resonance of flesh on flesh, a crack, a yell, muffled fumbling against concrete. it's hard to determine what happens when, and your stomach lurches in monition when you try too hard to focus.

catching your breath, you straighten your back and comb your hair off of your face with an unsteady hand. "hey." you jump and spin when a stranger starts speaking just a few feet away from you. "this place is looking pretty hot right now," the girl continues, nodding toward the apartment. another girl is standing next to her, cigarette in hand. the smell makes you nearly gag. "i'd say it's gonna be busted literally any minute now," the girl elaborates when you don't think to respond. the cigarette girl makes a comment you don't catch and the first girl laughs. the confusion must be written on your face because the girl elaborates further, "you should probably get out of here."

it finally coheres and you can feel your expression stretch into cartoonish revelation. "go-otcha. thanks." the girl tells you it's no problem, and in farewell says to have a good night and stay hydrated. she and her friend walk off, carrying the smog of tobacco with them. you nod vacantly in their wake.

the res halls aren't far from here, so it shouldn't be too difficult to get back so long as you set your mind to it. you reacquaint yourself with the environment and try to recall which direction you're supposed to head. while you're deliberating, someone grabs your shoulder and is met with an unreserved yell. you whip around to find duncan barlow, and realize in retrospect that he had been calling your name. he looks... messed up. bottom lip broken and glossy, duncan pants through his mouth between words. "lucas, i--"

your tongue tastes like an unsavory blend of liquor and bile as you look for the words to say. "not... right now, duncan," you assert blandly, dispassionately attempting to shake him off and move forward. with a stumble, he orbits around you, leading you to bump into him. you scowl and take an uneven step back. his hair is mussed with sweat and drying blood, a clip of grass is matted to his cheek, his palms and knees are rough with dirt. barely standing upright, he holds you by the shoulders and physically demands you to meet his eyes. it doesn't feel like he's seeing anything.

"lucas," he tries again. "i'm being sucha fucking asshole and i'm so sorry." the alcohol on his breath is noxious, his syllables mingle. his lip quivers and it's hard to even catalogue this as duncan barlow, his demeanor is so unfamiliar. you try jostle him off again to a frustrating lack of avail. "i'm so sorry," he repeats.

"come on, duncan," you lament, feebly tugging yourself away when he doesn't let go. he lets his arms drop slack at his sides. he looks pathetic like this. normally his eyes have life in them, a brightness always buttressed by the wide social net he has. but right now he's beaten, worn, alone, and it oozes through his cracks.

"please just talk to me," he pleads, and you can't even figure out what the fuck he's trying to achieve. the pitiful way he looks at you, though, with his wet eyes and blotched face, is ugly in a way that grinds down into your last nerve. "lu-ucas," he whines, and your patience snaps. you want to go home. you want to be alone. duncan takes a step toward you and you body him out of your way before you can even think.

as you stalk off toward the dorms, the sound of a thud and an expletive carry from behind you.


	2. CONTINUE

  


* * *

**LUCAS, october, ANTHRO1100**

you'd felt a little off following your morning routine before coming here. it wasn't based in guilt you don't think, at least not quite, but the restlessness glued itself just below the surface of your skin regardless. you make an effort to occupy yourself on your laptop, checking off attendance as students trickle in. this is intended to distract from the notion of duncan barlow, but that proves counterintuitive as you hover over the blank check boxes beside his name. you nonchalantly scan over the room -- no duncan. ok. you feel a sharp pinch at your lip where you've been impulsively gnawing the dry skin off with your teeth. you swipe your tongue over the offending area and taste a hint of blood.

it's fifty minutes past the start of class when duncan ambles in, past you and to his usual desk. you check the box under the "tardy" column.

you gamble a glance or two by pretending to crack your back, using your seat as leverage. looking behind you, it seems like duncan's attention lies in your direction. it lingers, and even when you turn back to him you think you feel the weight of his gaze. your recollection of friday is hazy, and you haven't put forth the effort to decipher your memories. frankly, you would like that night behind you.

the quizzes are digital, so the results are immediately transferred to your computer as students submit their answers. duncan's responses are alarmingly fast; while others' remain pending for a few moments, duncan's submit within seconds of each other. when the program notifies you that duncan's exam is completed, you inconspicuously open a new browser, shrink it and move it where it will get the least visibility, and relaunch the site to review his answers. across from "GRD," in red font, is the number 20%. you can feel your eyebrows knit immediately -- how and why was he answering so quickly if he didn't know the answers? you're curious about the content of the question he got correct, so you quickly scroll through his responses. you realize then that the one question he got right was a stroke of probability, because he chose "C" for every answer. a pang of discomfort (guilt? shame? pity? annoyance?) prods your stomach and you exit the tab.

class hasn't quite ended yet, but you're already packing your things, eager to leave. normally it bothers you when students start shuffling their belongings away as the professor is still speaking, but today is an exception. you're out the door the second the professor dismisses everyone and down the hall within a few seconds more. you do not want to interact with duncan. maybe it's because friday's memories have the same consistency as an anxiety dream, but you really would like to put it all behind you. speaking of behind you, someone taps your shoulder politely and you jump.

* * *

**DUNCAN, october, ANTHRO1100**

some girl is talking to lucas when you make it to the hall. you didn't bring anything with you so there was nothing to pack. lucas affirms something, the girl nods and smiles, and you approach as she turns away. lucas notices you, tries to cover genuine fear with unaware indifference, and then casually speeds to the building exit. you feel too baked to catch up but by some miracle you match his pace anyway.

"dude," you say as you reach out to his shoulder. lucas is preparing to body the glass door open with his side (he's probably going to bruise himself), so he can't really move away, despite a jerky effort. however, the positioning is awkward and together you are blocking one of the three connected doorways. the white daylight shining from behind lucas nearly eclipses him, blinding his face from you; you squint because you would like to see him. only the gold hairs of lucas's eyebrows, lashes, and peach fuzz can be stenciled out from his face, glowing with the sun's reflection. you are mesmerized.

"what? come on, duncan," lucas elbows you a little to get you through the doorway. your hand breaks contact with his shoulder and you stumble a bit on your way out. outside, he is close behind. you aren't sure what emotion is on lucas's face: something like pity, mixed with guilt, or maybe annoyance. "what, duncan?" he prompts, and he fills your vision like a fish-eye lens. you're seeing as much as you always see, but all you are capable of paying mind to is him. you had an edible before class. three absences and you flunk.

"oh, hey dude," you greet, going for care-free. you simply dive in because you don't know what the point in biding time would be. "can we hang? just chill for a bit?" you smile. this is probably how you normally act. lucas turns to move past you sooner than you expect.

"i have stuff to do," he says, but he never has stuff to do, which makes you think he's lying. you really just want to talk with him. not about anything special or heavy, you just would like his company. your brain is too high not to acknowledge that you missed him. because you really did, and you felt very conflicted all weekend. the unusual honesty pinches heat behind your eyes for the barest of seconds before you recover.

"please, lucas," you say, standing still. lucas physically hesitates, takes in a breath, looks at you, and he really is cute. you are also quite high. you may have overshot your tolerance, or maybe you knew what you were doing to yourself.

"okay," he resigns.

* * *

**LUCAS, october, campus grounds**

duncan's trying for amiable but it's too slow to be convincing. he doesn't smell like anything other than cologne but you would bargain to say that he's high right now. possibly very high, but it is difficult to gauge.

when duncan begs, it's too open. sentimental. genuine. it stabs you in the gut and you hit yourself internally when you give in with two syllables.

the two of you appear to be walking aimlessly toward the dorms. you're trying to follow duncan but duncan might be following you. it's quiet, aside from the bustle of other students going on with their day. very little is spoken between either of you, despite his request to accompany you. he's keeping his gaze trained in your direction and it makes you uneasy. the notion that he isn't sober adds to that discomfort, so you ask. "did you smoke before class or something?"

duncan starts with a negative before backtracking. it looks like he's connecting thoughts as he's saying them. "i had an edible, yeah. it's kind of stupid. sorry." he seems so stripped down right now, and a memory bubbles vaguely at the back of your thoughts. duncan's almost pitiable, which only amplifies your bemusement. you gesture, uncertain, toward a bench and you both sit. you deposit your backpack on the pavement by your feet and ask him why he wanted to hang out.

* * *

**DUNCAN, october, campus grounds**

the daylight really does suit lucas well. it's a little chilly today so the tip of lucas's nose is blushed, his lips are pale. his freckles add an uneven shading to his cheeks, coalescing with the blemishes there to cast a strikingly human face. lucas's hair continues to glow against the light and you are near overwhelmed. "you're really pretty. you're so pretty." there must be something wrong with you and yet you feel at peace. these are things lucas needs to know.

"are you gay?" lucas asks in return.

* * *

**LUCAS, october, campus grounds**

you don't mean it maliciously. it's a figurative biting of the bullet. everything keeps piling up and what you recall of the party (the memories are smudged and fragmented but they exist in bubbles of context-specific emotion) spurs you onward. duncan sighs and kneads the back of his neck with a hand.

"i'm sorry about the party," he answers something you didn't ask. "i don't know what you remember, and i don't really know what i remember, but i'm sorry." he's not finished talking and it puts you on edge.

"i don't really know if i want to hear this if you aren't sober, duncan," you push before he can get another word out. you can see him cognitively backpedal with the change in direction, but his reply doesn't take long.

"i don't know if you'll ever hear it, then, is the thing." you pause; you aren't comfortable with this. talking with duncan like he's a sensible, sincere person isn't how your dynamic works. duncan's the big idiot and you're the martyr who is cursed to humor him. that isn't to say that you aren't interested, nor that you don't want things sorted out, because you are interested and you would like things to be sorted out. you aren't partial to change. there's definite dread, though; without question you are nervous.

duncan continues, "i was really wasted. like super wasted. like more than usual. and that's not, like, to excuse whatever -- 'cause it's not, i take responsibility, y'know? -- but however i acted was really uncool and i don't wanna fuck up what we have just because i was stupid." what we have? duncan looks at his sneakers as he idly swings them. "all i wanna ask is if we could hang out more." he laughs at himself, a feeble thing, and you hate feeling sympathy for duncan barlow.

you contemplate how duncan didn't acknowledge your question. though you wonder how you yourself would answer. "sure," you say, probably beyond your better judgment.

duncan's reaction seems cautious before he settles into it, having confirmed that you aren't making fun of him. "lucas, for real. i like you a lot. you're honestly one of the best people i know."

you aren't sure how good the people duncan knows are, and you tell him that. he laughs but you can tell he's serious.

* * *

**DUNCAN, late october, edison dormitory**

in spite of it being literally the best, most fun, most enjoyable holiday (halloween), lucas refuses to dress up with you. you show up at his dorm, nose bandaged with stuff you scavenged from the first aid kit your mom forced on you, wearing a moss green colored hoodie (you owned this), jeans (you owned these), a white t-shirt (you bought this one and drew a little blood stain with permanent marker), and sneakers (also owned). your hair is a little messier than usual and you drew a little mole on your upper lip. you are really proud of this year's costume (last year was "nudist on strike," which pales in comparison).

"holy shit, what happened?" lucas has the nerve to ask. you ask him what he means. "your nose, duncan!" lucas responds, and you groan.

"it's my costume, lucas! i said we were doing costumes." you gesture at yourself to emphasize your statement. lucas (who is wearing the same outfit he wore to anthro earlier today) rolls his eyes, steps out of the room, and shuts the door behind him.

"where are we going, then?" lucas begins walking toward the dorm stairwell.

you are beside yourself. "you're not going to ask what my costume is?" you demand as you catch up.

"it's you with a broken nose. very clever, duncan," he patronizes. you fume.

"i'm the fucking guy from _hereditary_ , lucas! come on, i look just like him." you cannot believe how he is unraveling all of your effort in just a few sentences. "the nose! the blood! the mole!"

lucas looks you over, then scrutinizes your face. he sighs and continues to walk, glancing at you from the side. "well, how was i supposed to know that?"

you explain to lucas that you watched _hereditary_ together at one of the club movie screenings, so, yeah, that's how he should have known. you look like a mirror fucking image of alex wolff. lucas needs his eyes checked or something.

as you head down the stairs, lucas asks again where you two are headed. you start naming off some apartment parties, but lucas is fast to nix them. your friday routines have changed a lot since lucas has become a more consistent component to your life. however, you don't really know what to do if not go to a party. you're both stepping out into the evening air from lucas's building when it hits you. "FUCK, lucas! let's smoke, oh my god."

lucas must be in a pretty alright mood because he doesn't reject the proposal immediately. instead he asks, "just us?" you've got tons of stuff you assure him, and lead the way to your own dorm, newly invigorated.

===

_nantucket dormitory, room c109_

when you get to your room (your roommate is out partying like a sane person), you readily fall into smoking protocol: lock door, cover smoke detector, open windows. lucas looks shocked. "in here?" he asks, brows raised.

you turn on the fan. "yeah, it's fine."

* * *

**LUCAS, late october, nantucket dormitory, room c109**

the room around you doesn't strike you in any way, except in the way that it doesn't really strike you. duncan's bed has plain sheets and a comforter in heather blues, clothes are strewn about, there's a pile of half-packed stuff from duncan's roommate (who is apparently transferring schools midway through the semester), and there are posters on duncan's designated side of the room (the shared lightsource of a floor lamp and a red-purple lava lamp are too dim to make out the designs, though you would bargain that they are for bands). really, it just looks like a typical college dorm room.

duncan pulls out his weed paraphernalia from what appears to be a hollowed out dictionary (how ironic). you're a little surprised at yourself for agreeing to this, but admittedly you've gotten more comfortable around duncan over the last few weeks.

===

when you both settle down in front of the window, things suddenly feel much more intimate; duncan seems unusually close, but that could also be because you're huddled on the floor together. duncan takes a hit, gently passes the pipe to you, and blows smoke out the window. he asks if you've ever smoked before.

you take a shallow pull of what's still burning before answering, "yeah, once, but nothing happened." the small volume of smoke billows from your mouth and by your cheeks. duncan laughs with what might be affection.

"you gotta hold it in, dude." you feel a little chagrined but duncan demonstrates for you. he breathes from the pipe long enough to keep the embers burning red for a bit, breathes in clean air after pulling the pipe away, and then holds his breath for maybe fifteen seconds -- evidently longer than you had held in the smoke. then he blows out the window and passes the pipe back to you. "your turn."

* * *

**DUNCAN, late october, nantucket dormitory, room c109**

watching lucas take a longer pull, you can tell by the length of time the embers are cherry red (too long) that he's going to hurt himself. you can tell the second lucas feels the burn, because his eyes go wide and watery and he heaves the smoke out the window in a fit of coughs. he grasps the ledge with tight knuckles. "coughing only makes it worse," you advise cautiously. you're not trying to be condescending; he has to learn. "you gotta just take deep breaths." actually, for once in your life you feel a little intelligent in front of lucas.

lucas's cheeks are crimson (from the coughing or the cold or the embarrassment) and it's very charming in a sweet kind of way. he tries to hand the pipe to you but you refuse and tell him to try it again. you recommend that he moderate the pull, get something in between what he's been doing. lucas nods and sets to work, but finds trouble lighting the bowl (he keeps using his nail rather than his thumb to flick the wheel and also twists his wrist away from the pipe each time he flicks, so he manages to 1. not light the weed, 2. wear down his nail, and 3. burn his thumb a little). normally you aren't so considerate of people, and were he anyone else, you would be judging lucas hard right now. instead, you find the ineptitude endearing.

you tell him you'll light it for him, so his responsibility is only to breathe in. even closer together now, you light the bowl with ease as lucas takes cautious but adequate pulls. you're kind of impressed. lucas looks at your face as he holds his breath.

as lucas blows smoke fairly smoothly out the window, you take a pull for yourself: it's big to compensate for what you forfeited earlier. lucas continues to stare at you and you smile. illuminated by the moon, lucas leans against the window frame. the sight is alluring, if not heavenly. lucas returns the smile and then his brows raise in acute realization. he doesn't remember to drop the grin as he announces, "i'm high right now."

* * *

**LUCAS, late october, nantucket dormitory, room c109**

or maybe you aren't, because now that you've made this big claim you feel totally normal. it's probably just the placebo effect making you think you're feeling something you're not. staring at duncan, you had thought that you'd been observing everything as if it were a dream, but now that you're conscious of it, you think you probably just made it up. you're so busy in your thoughts that you don't register duncan had been saying something until he's nudging your hand with his own insistently. "what?" you ask.

"i said, 'congratulations, sir,'" he laughs, shaking your hand with playful respect. maybe you are high. duncan passes the pipe to you and you gape at it before recalling what you had been doing just moments ago. duncan lights for you again and you are so thankful for him. you take what you believe is a pretty big hit because you lose track of time, but you don't hurt yourself. duncan takes the pipe from you and pulls from it himself because it's still burning.

when you blow the smoke out (after holding it in for a substantial amount of time!) your head swims with pride and possible oxygen deprivation and you laugh.

"did you fucking see that?" you say. you can't even hold back the joy in your voice. duncan smiles with you, reflecting the enthusiasm before blowing out his own smoke.

"that was fucking massive dude! you're like a pro," duncan laughs, but he isn't completely joking. you're flattered to hear this from duncan and can actually feel your ears warm up. "this is shot," duncan continues, and scrapes whatever is left from the pipe out the window.

* * *

**DUNCAN, late october, nantucket dormitory, room c109**

lucas is so funny and you love being around him. you don't even really want to do anything in specific with him; you just want to talk. you could talk with him forever if he'd let you. lucas doesn't respond to you like any other human you've ever met. there's something in how he acknowledges you as though you're both on the same plane, like you are somehow connected at a metaphysical, subatomic level. no one could possibly begin to understand you like lucas does. you say all of this aloud because your thoughts and actions feel as though they've merged into one layer. lucas appears to process what you've said, and then his ears go redder. he surprises both of you with a burst of laughter.

* * *

**LUCAS, late october, nantucket dormitory, room c109**

duncan is so fucking high, holy shit. you tell him this between gasped laughs, though you don't quite remember what was so funny about it in the first place. then you play through your memory of the last few seconds and your giggles curb themselves. what duncan said was actually kind of really sweet, in his super stupid stoned way. you smile wide enough that your face pinches on the sides. duncan smiles back, a little off-centered, a little sheepish, still confident -- and something suddenly clicks with recognition in the vague cloud of your mind.

"oh my god, you look like fucking young christian bale," you say, tickled with the revelation. duncan never looked like ryan gosling at all, it was always christian bale. "not with the costume, just in general," you clarify.

"is he hot?" duncan asks.

"well, it's christian bale," you answer. duncan says he's not sure which one that is. " _american psycho_ ! _the dark knight_!"

duncan is already on his phone looking it up, but he pauses at your response. "...batman?"

* * *

**DUNCAN, late october, nantucket dormitory, room c109**

lucas just called you super hot. lucas really just admitted that he thinks that you are super hot. you feel yourself blush hot all over your face, subconscious hope you'd been putting a damper on now reignited. the restrictions you usually maintain in conversation with lucas slacken at this discovery.

you hear people outside and realize you forgot to shut the window. you close it and move closer to lucas on the floor. "if i'm batman, then you're robin," you tell him. you actually don't know the batman lore, as a dedicated spiderman fan, but you say it to be cheeky anyway.

"first, i didn't compare you to batman the character. second, robin wasn't in _the dark knight_. i'm talking about the heath ledger one. three, i wouldn't be a sidekick." neither of you notice the slip in sequential continuity.  "well, maybe i would. i don't know. i don't actually know that much about superheroes."

"i'm like pretty sure robin is his son," you lie. you don't really have reason to, you're just messing around.

"oh GROSS, duncan!" lucas pushes you a little in playful disgust.

"what's so gross about it! you think i'd make a bad dad?"

lucas shakes his head loosely. "no, you'd probably be a really great dad," he refutes, "but it's weird if i'm, like, your son."

you feel like he might be suggesting something. "but what about it is _weird_ , though?" you urge, bumping his shoulder with yours.

lucas pauses and then laughs at himself. "i'm so high right now."

* * *

**LUCAS, late october, nantucket dormitory, room c109**

hours pass and it's late now. the two of you got absorbed streaming conspiracy videos on your phone, still huddled together. duncan had covered you both in a shared blanket at some point, and now you're nodding off against each other. it should probably be uncomfortable, but behind you are pillows and surrounding you is warmth.

you gravitate toward duncan. this has been such a pleasant time. duncan smells very boy-ish close up, like how young adult clothing chains expect guys to smell. you dip your head a little from where it's balanced against duncan's, getting a preferable angle to better experience the faint cologne. you're not super awake so it's fine.

the movement stirs duncan and he opens his eyes groggily (even though he's only been out for less than a minute). his smile at the sight of you is so unadulterated, so transparent, so bright that you question the entire nature of your relationship (what it is, what is has been, what it should be, what it could be). "hi," duncan whispers, and it is outrageously endearing. you have never before in your life felt any overwhelming desire to kiss another person (there always seemed to be more suitable, viable options), but you are struck dumb with how attracted you are to duncan in this moment. your heart speeds up unnaturally fast with this conscious recognition of feelings, and you resiliently do not act on anything. you smile in return at duncan and then close your eyes like you're drifting off too.

* * *

**DUNCAN, mid december**

===

_barlow residence_

it was your mom's idea to invite lucas over, but the prospect excites you more than you could have anticipated. your house isn't the one people would hang out at, so it's very rare for you to consider actually having someone besides an immediate relative in your home. it isn't that your house is a sacred space nor an area of insecurity or anything, but the concept of lucas gallagher being in your house (your room) sets your pulse faster.

having had doubts that lucas would accept, you held up on tidying the house the way your mom had urged you to; there didn't seem to be a point if you weren't having guests. because he did end up accepting (wow), you just spent an hour and a half wiping down mirrors with window cleaner and stuffing clothes into laundry baskets. finished with your chores now (and feeling pretty satisfied with the appearance of the house!), you clean yourself up before helping your mom with the pizza.

* * *

**LUCAS, mid december, barlow residence**

despite the time you've spent with duncan the past few months (helping him in anthro, spending lunches together, watching at least one movie a week, holding legitimate conversations), you somehow didn't expect to be at his house over winter break. mid-terms happened, thanksgiving break passed, finals had come and gone, and neither of you had had the clarity to note that you'd be going home to the same town.

overall, your relationship with duncan has been markedly easy. aside from the natural quarrels you get into (the most recent one was over his phone contact for you, wherein he had set your contact image to the "incel" meme and replaced your contact name with "Virgin"; you insisted that he change it, and he eventually did). you can't say you mind the time spent with him. maybe you might even say he's your closest friend.

the doorbell squeaks under your finger when you press it, but you can't hear an echoing ring inside the house. not wanting to seem impatient, you wait a minute before you knock instead. his house is smaller than you realized, though not exactly unexpected. the facade of the house is decorated with string lights and there is an inflatable santa in the front yard. the welcome mat at your feet says "this house is under elf surveillance," accompanied by a graphic of a cartoon elf. as you loiter for the minute, you can hear the buzz of an oven fan and the indiscernible murmurs of people conversing beyond the door. it's only a few seconds after you knock that the door clicks open to reveal duncan, wearing a university sweatshirt and tastefully distressed jeans (a target buy, maybe?). a little clump of flour is lodged in his hair and it gives you a weird sense of delight, makes you feel at home. he grins at you and you thoughtlessly return it.

"so this is my place," he gestures expansively, letting you in as he takes a few steps back. the house is quaint, definitely lived in. it smells like garlic and firewood and yankee candle and warmth. you sometimes forget the financial disparity between duncan's family and yours, and if the outside didn't, the inside certainly reminds you.

===

first duncan introduces you to his mom. her chestnut hair is tied back with an elastic and her work scrubs have a cartoon reindeer design. you can't ascertain her age: you would guess without context that she is maybe forty, but duncan is twenty. the logistics aren't impossible, but you just aren't sure. she might simply look good for her age. in any event, she is very sweet and shares duncan's open laughter. ms. barlow seems actually interested in what you say, which throws you off. your parents always seem to be looking to hear something in particular, and you're always floundering to figure out what it is.

(another thing which throws you off is when, during conversation with duncan, ms. barlow warns something about "santa always watching." in turn, duncan adjusts his behavior; he must have used a curse word or something. it stands out to you because it seems like duncan might actually still believe in santa. you don't want to think this is the case -- you respect duncan, for the most part -- but it might just be. you make a note to cautiously broach the subject later. you plan to kind of imply santa is real, just in case -- you wouldn't want to spoil the magic.)

his little sister doesn't join until their mom calls her down for dinner, and then duncan introduces her as well. she seems very timid, which you can relate to. when she does speak up at dinner, it's with a pink face and stammered words (you think there's the chance she has a crush on you). she and duncan don't look super similar (her complexion is cooler-toned and her facial structure is longer, compared to duncan), but their mannerisms when they do get talking nearly reflect each other. it's cute.

* * *

**DUNCAN, mid december, barlow residence**

after dinner is finished and lucas has helped clear the table (your mom seemed very pleased with his etiquette, which in turn seemed to give lucas a little confidence), your mom asks if you guys want to play any games. you are quick on the defense because you know monopoly always gets you confused and upset. "maaa, nooo," you start off whiny because that tends to work with her. "luc 'n' i are going to my room anyway," you assert, regardless of whether this plan was discussed beforehand (it wasn't). lucas nods anyway and your mom lets you both go with a sigh.

upon entering your room, you regret having kept the door closed. without ventilation, the febreeze and old spice you sprayed earlier still linger in a concentrated veil. lucas immediately starts coughing, so you apologize and open a window. you pull the string of a lamp while you're at it and the room is suddenly visible. on the wall is your hat collection, on your desk and dressers are miscellaneous tchotchke souvenirs. because the window's open now, you gently shut your door for privacy and plop down on the navy comforter of your twin size mattress. you pat beside yourself in indication for lucas to join.

he sits next to you and seems to choose his words carefully as he uses them, "so... is -- are you expecting anything interesting from santa this year?"

"holy shit, lucas, you believe in santa?" you never would have expected it from him; it makes you giggle almost giddily. lucas bristles.

"no!" he exclaims, and then quiets down. "nevermind, nevermind," he insists with a shake of his head (his ears are pink now). after less than a moment passes, he changes the subject. "uh, your sister is kind of adorable," he tries. you let the santa thing pass.

"gross! she's like fourteen, you sicko," you play at offense. you know your sister is adorable, and you love her.

* * *

**LUCAS, mid december, barlow residence**

"what!" you somehow didn't see yourself walking into duncan's response, so you hit his upper arm in compensation for your lack of foresight. "i didn't mean it like that, you dick." you pause, contemplating. "though i do think she might like me, hah."

"makes sense," duncan says before lying back. his sweatshirt lifts a bit, revealing the waistline of his boxer-briefs. you meditate on the image before lying down to parallel him. you prop your cheek against your hand and notice that duncan is wearing a goofy smile.

the smile is a little contagious and you feel it tugging your lips. duncan is in a remarkably good mood. "what's funny?"

"nothing." his expression doesn't change. his attention on you makes you heat up somehow, even though the room is pretty chilly with the window open. you wonder absentmindedly what he's done in this room. not -- you initially were just thinking on a universal basis but you sabotage your own thoughts. you don't even know what brought it to mind in the first place; duncan just looks... a certain way right now. a magnetic way. he looks the way he'd probably look before he, like, made out with a girl on his bed. or something. holy shit, you're losing your mind. does he even make out with girls? holy fuck, what is up with you. are you even interested in girls anymore? who are you interested in? are you interested in duncan? the intrusive thoughts stack with ease in the brief silence and it makes your head feel stuffed with nonsense. "lucas?"

your eyes snap to his in desperation for something else to focus on. you feel almost disrespectful having the thoughts you're having while in his home, in his room, on his bed, so close to him. "yeah?"

duncan mildly props himself up on an elbow, slow and steady for whatever reason. the pace helps calm you down. his hand is careful and cold as he places it on your jaw. your heart stutters against your ribs as duncan idly brushes the pad of his thumb in light back-and-forths against the line of your cheek.

"is this okay?" he asks, voice subdued and a little captivating, and there are so many implications here that you have never experienced before. you have never been in a position like this. you're nodding before you can even process your decision.

"is this?" he asks as he props himself even farther forward, moves his face in closer to yours, and you're ashamed at how elated you are at the prospect of kissing duncan barlow.

* * *

**DUNCAN, mid december, barlow residence**

there's something fulfilling in having lucas's mouth against yours, like this has been a prophecy you've worked toward every day until now. you would ideally like to do more but lucas is neither reciprocating nor rejecting. a little reluctantly, you pull away. "was that okay?"

his face is hard to read: it's mostly shock, maybe. there are some other things there too (in the faint tremor of his eyebrow, in the focus of his pupils, in the change of his breathing), but you aren't astute enough to figure them out.

he takes some time before nodding, affirming with a soft "yeah." you kiss him again.

===

**EPILOGUE**

your name is duncan barlow. you're kind of a dick, but you've grown up since high school. maybe you smoke too much weed and make bad decisions, had to withdraw from an art history class because you weren't going to pass, and have little propensity for others' boundaries, but you aren't irredeemable. lucas gallagher helps you see that. you passed intro to anthropology with a B.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank youuuuuuuu for reading & i hope u enjoyed :)


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